


in the high tide and cold water

by thespideyboy



Series: my spideypool collection [15]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Blink and you'll miss it, Boys In Love, Brief Tony stark - Freeform, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, I'm a sucker for this kinda stuff, M/M, Peter needs a little bit of support, Wade is a supportive boyfriend, and Sigourney weaver, and lucky for him, brief steve rogers, but like, it's a little bit of angst, it's mostly fluff, mentions of alien, mentions of the avengers, really it's just them cuddling, sue me, this fic is entirely about wade and Peter don't let me fool you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22536361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespideyboy/pseuds/thespideyboy
Summary: “Petey,” Wade sighs, trickling forward, arms extended. Peter falls into his embrace easily, relishing in the feeling of a warm chest, strong biceps. “Rough day at the office?”“You don’t know the half of it,” He nuzzles into Wade, his arms gathered between their bodies. Every ounce of his attention is zeroed in on the drum of Wade’s pulse, the rise and fall of his breathing.//or, the one where peter really just needs a hug
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: my spideypool collection [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1289819
Comments: 6
Kudos: 189





	in the high tide and cold water

“I love him,” Peter admits, lungs constricting. The other Avengers watch him with careful eyes- there’s a hard edge in their collective gaze, and it sends a shiver down his spine. 

Tony steps forwards. The suit covers the entirety of his body- it’s impossible to get a read on what he could possibly be thinking. “He’s not capable of love, Peter.”

Silence. The rest of the team doesn’t audibly agree, but they don’t disagree, either- their silence is as good as compliance. 

“Not only that,” Tony continues, “But you’re still just a kid. You don’t need someone like _Deadpool_ in your life, not when there’s so much more you could be doing with-”

“I’m twenty-four,” Peter lowers his hands, his senses ringing cautiously. The stance his body adopts is defensive- the others notice, but they don’t comment. This isn’t their fight, not really. “I’m twenty-four, and I’m a goddamn _Avenger_ , Stark.” he motions to his suit, to the tears that interrupt the fabric, the bloodied skin that peeks through, “I think I can make my own decisions.”

Tony is frowning- Peter can’t see it, but he can tell by the way the older man shifts his weight. He’s a genius, Tony is, but that doesn’t stop him from being as predictable as anyone else in the room. 

“You’re making a mistake.” Captain Rogers says. 

Peter ignores him. All of them- the looks they give him leave little to the imagination, so he leaves the tower, jumps out the nearest window and lets muscle memory guide him to the apartment he’s recently claimed as his home. 

He’s in desperate need of a hug, right now, and there’s only one person on the planet that’s capable of satisfying that. 

Predictably, the window is open when Peter arrives. Billowing curtains greet his entrance, feathering along his legs, his torso, his arms as he hauls himself inside. The bedroom is empty at first, and Peter slips out of the mask, lets himself melt into the scent of sandalwood and gunpowder while he waits, curling his fingers into his palms as he closes his eyes, breathes in. 

His senses have quieted, barely any louder than the hum of the AC. They don’t react when another presence rolls into the room. 

“Petey,” Wade sighs, trickling forward, arms extended. Peter falls into his embrace easily, relishing in the feeling of a warm chest, strong biceps, a gentle hold. “Rough day at the office?”

Albeit bitterly, Peter can’t help but grin, ignoring the tears in his suit and the gashes they reveal to pull Wade closer, _tighter._

“You don’t know the half of it,” He nuzzles into Wade, his arms gathered between their bodies. Every ounce of his attention is zeroed in on the drum of Wade’s pulse, the rise and fall of his breathing - they fall in and out of synch, as steady as a quiet bay, as conciliating as a hammock. 

They’re as close as they can fathom, not even a slice of air challenging their proximity, but Wade holds Peter as delicately as he’s ever, cradling his body like it’s a bouquet; both firm and careful, soft and zealous, Wade is the most intricate person Peter has ever encountered, the most important Peter ever will. 

Peter inhales. He collects every vein of stress, every tense muscle, every panicked thought, and then exhales. Inhales, exhales, repeats it until his tongue is no longer heavy and his bones no longer feel like chalk. Something resentful nibbles at the back of his neck; anger, perhaps, at the obstinance of his teammates, but he wills himself to focus on the arms around him instead, the weight of affection draped over his shoulders like a sheepskin blanket. 

As though he’s reading Peter’s thoughts, Wade drags his hand from Peter’s waist, along the curve of his spine, up to the nape of his neck. Scarred fingers tangle with Peter’s hair, massage indistinguishable shapes into his scalp. “You’re looking a little like Louis Creed.” He states. 

Peter leans into the weight of Wade’s hand, his eyes easing shut. “I’m alright.”

“ _After_ the Cema- no. Sama? Sematary? Is that how they spell it?”

Smiling softly, eyes still closed, “Sounds about right.”

“Hm- Right. _After_ the _Sematary_ \- (that’s the one, yeah?) - got him, that’s what I wanted to say.” He pulls away, just an inch or so, craning his neck to study Peter’s face. “But- but from the first movie. Not the second and _definitely_ not the remake. You look like _that._ Just a little. Like _that._ You catchin’ what I’m tossin’, _honey-monkey?_ ”

Peter hums in agreement, and then Wade guides him out of the room, past the kitchen, over to the couch. He opens his eyes here and there, catching brief glimpses of discarded rubber bullets, agressively-coloured furniture, the custom _Christmas Story_ lamp that’s acting as the dining table’s centerpiece. 

The couch welcomes them lovingly, its worn leather giving in as soon as Wade lays himself down, pulls Peter on top. Barely a moment is spent adjusting- they fall into their usual position, with Peter’s head pillowed by Wade’s pectoral, one hand against Wade’s collarbone, the other soothing over the textured hill of his bicep. 

Their legs tangle like ivy. Wade’s arms are linked around Peter’s waist; it’s the only security he’s ever going to need, the only protection he’s ever really wanted. 

Cupping Peter’s hip, Wade keeps him close, waiting a minute or so before defying the silence that’s fallen over them.

“So,” He begins, “What gotcha this time, sweetpea? A duo of giant shape-shifting weasels? An army of teeny-tiny titanium tapirs?”

Peter can feel the rumble of Wade’s timbre against his ear, slow and sweet and blissfully familiar, like honey and chamomile, cocoa and steamed milk. 

“Or- _oh!_ I got it! It was a single, horse-sized duck, wasn’t it? Man, _man,_ let me tell you, I had a run in with one‘a those guys, ended with me havin’ to regrow three limbs and _both eyeballs._ Both of ‘em, Pete. _Travesty_ , losing these baby blues.”

“Nah,” Peter tilts his chin upwards, drops a whisper of a kiss against Wade’s shoulder, smiles at the shudder it elicits, “Just some more alien stuff. Small blue guys, kinda- you know, they actually kinda looked like that one yogurt mascot, the- I can’t even remember the name, but I think- you know what, doesn’t matter. They were, uh- _way_ stronger than they had any right to be, you know how it is.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, baby boy. Blue aliens? I seen ‘em all, and they’re all _freaky_ and _destructive_ and- I mean, I guess not the ones on Pandora, ‘cos they were bein’ attacked by- by _us,_ actually, and, well, I don’t remember if Cameron’s done anything since then, but-” With a pause, Wade knocks his heel into the couch’s arm, his lips rolled in thought, “What was I talking about?”

“Er- Aliens. I think.” Peter supplies, and it’s so wonderfully simple when Wade grins like a sixth-grader, tossing his hand out for the remote like it’s the second-most important thing in the world right now.

“Alien! Like- Like Ms. Weaver?” He’s buzzing, now, smile growing, heartrate picking up audibly, and the excitement is contagious. In moments, Peter almost entirely forgets about his shitty team, about their half-assed judgements and disapproving looks, too caught up in the sudden flux in Wade’s demeanor, the hasty way he flips on the TV, scours through the channel. 

Somehow, because things like this always seem to work out in his favour, Wade’s got Ellen Ripley on screen, gun in hand, curls in check. 

“She’s _gorgeous,_ ain’t she?” Wade swoons, his eyes adhered to the movie as he plants a sloppy kiss on Peter’s forehead. It’s not a gentle action, not by anyone’s standards, but it screams affection, _demands_ that all bystanders and audiences alike understand the _love_ that flowers between them, grows like tomato vines around their interlocked forms. “Got nothin’ on you, though. Don’t you worry ‘bout being jealous, baby. You’re my, shall I say, _Endgame?_ ”

“‘M not worried,” Peter laughs, then, melting further into Wade. Exhaustion sets in his bones, weighs against his eyelids like sacks of pastry flour.“Love you too much to be worried ‘bout something like that.”

He can feel Wade nodding, can feel as scarred lips lift into a private smile at the edge of his hairline. Peter can’t see Wade’s expression, not right now, but he’s memorized every inch of Wade’s face, every contour and dimple and mark, and he _knows_ that soft look almost as well as he knows Wade himself. 

A heavy sigh, and then, “You’re my favourite, Petey. Love you to bits- pieces! But even more than pieces, especially even more than Reece’s Pieces, that’s for sure.”

“You better,” Peter shoots back, “Everyone knows the cups are better. I’d be-” He yawns, buries his body deeper between Wade and the back of the couch, “I’d be _offended,_ otherwise.”

“‘Course I love you more than the cups.” Hands find Peter’s hair, dance across the plane of his cheek, “Love you more than everything. And anything. And then some. But!” Wade chuckles like a maniac, “Alien time, bay-be!”

When Peter finally falls asleep, it’s to the rhythm of boots against metal grates, and to gunshots and shrieking xenomorphs; to a strong body beneath his own, and to fingers on his cheek and words of love whispered in his ear. 

He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hey!!
> 
> two posts in just as many weeks??? Who even am I??? 
> 
> I have. been majorly procrastinating my _other_ fic, but alas. I'll return to that eventually. For now, writing little fluff pieces like this seem to be a fantastic cure for whatever writer's-slump I have with my other WIP. 
> 
> anyways! hope y'all enjoyed! also! don't be shy! come say hey on tumblr! [@thespideyboy](https://thespideyboy.tumblr.com) !


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